What Lies Beneath
by Kaxel the Burninator
Summary: A beautiful tale of love and mutual respect, fraught with magical forests and singing woodland creatures...heh, just kidding.  Queen/Reaver
1. The Gnat

Chapter 1 – The Gnat

"-Highness…Your Highness!" Walter leaned uncomfortably toward the throne, his squinted, concerned eyes flicking back and forth from me to the rest of the court. I stirred as if waking from a long sleep, blinking rapidly.

The citizens of Bowerstone that had gathered for the day's hearing were shuffling awkwardly and murmuring to each other, probably about my presence of mind. At that time I was likely to agree with them; a great ruler could build armies, conquer nations, move the very mountains with the force of her will – and be undone by a lover.

"What is your ruling, Your Majesty?" Walter asked pointedly, rolling his eyes toward the two people standing before my throne. His hands picked nervously at the hem of his tunic. I opened my mouth, but then closed it abruptly; what _was_ the issue of the day? I could not recall the plaintiffs scheduled, or even moving from my bedchamber to the throne room. The previous night had been dedicated to military officials and the restructuring of the army. I'd spent the evening in the war room, then, with the generals. The generals and the main supplier of their weapons…

A sharp rapping silenced the chatter of the crowd, the resounding clangof metal on marble. I looked up, then, from glaring at the floor to glaring at a man standing upon it, the very man responsible for my current state of humiliation in front of some of the most influential people in Bowerstone. Had I been lacking in self control that morning, I believe I could have crushed the arms of my throne to rubble.

He glanced around the room to ensure that he was, in fact, the center of everyone's focus (and I feel certain he has never invested energy into anything in which he was not the object of interest). "Please, Sir Knight, it is obvious that our benevolent queen is experiencing a significant level of distress, and you are only upsetting her further. How tiresome it must be, rising morning after morning to sit in a chair and dole out decrees like candy. Let the woman _rest_, for God's sake. My dear friend and I will wait here, obediently as ever."

He grinned at me, that devilish smirk hoping to bait me into public banter; of course, I could not accept such a challenge, not in front of the citizenry. Before I could make any sort of cool remark, however, the other plaintiff interjected, and most appropriately.

"Don't you 'dear friend' me, monster." Page spat, stepping between Reaver and the throne. "And speak for _yourself_. Your factory is polluting the river!" She pivoted toward me, wildfire burning in her eyes. "Stop him, Your Majesty! The people who live by the river are falling ill and dying!"

"Oh, hush, Page. We've all heard it before. If a few poor sods must weather a fever, it is for the good of the kingdom. My industry is building the future, you know." He peered around the seething woman to wink at me, balancing with one hand on his cane. "Sorry, Your Highness, I should have said that _most _of us have heard it before."

I stood up; the room fell silent. My gaze lingered on Reaver, on the smile he was still wearing. _Grin all you want_, I told him with a glower, _I _am _your master here._ His smile only widened; I should have known better. A man like him lived off of unspoken dares.

"Page." I stepped down onto the main floor, signaling the end of the hearing. "You are correct. Our most valuable workers cannot be made to suffer for the profession in which they work," She nodded vehemently along with me, casting smugly victorious looks at her opponent until I finished, "but Reaver is not in tune with the people; you are. I believe the two of you should work together on redirecting the byproducts of his factories. Dismissed."

In that instant, their faces mirrored each other; dismay, hopelessness, a great sense of injustice – I could have laughed (but I didn't, for that would have been highly inappropriate for a ruler). Instead I stood quietly, stoically, properly, with my hands clasped together.

Page would not allow herself to crumble; her face became stone. She made a stiff bow before stomping away; as soon as she reached the hallway, her rage-filled screams echoed around the throne room. Seeing that the excitement was over, the onlookers had begun to file out of the castle and back to Bowerstone. Most would follow Page to some rally point; she'd rant until nightfall as long as she had an audience. I could see Walter's disapproving gaze out of the corner of my eye, hear his reprimanding words before he even spoke them.

"I would never have expected that from _you_. Petty revenge is no basis for rulings." He shook his head slowly, crossing his arms. "Granted it was the right decision, but the people were not on your mind at the time." He did not wait for me to respond, only turned, sighing.

Ah, understanding. I had won the battle, but _he_ had won the war. A queen getting scolded by her advisor was a sight I knew he would relish for months.

As predicted, his face had gone from horror to humor in a matter of seconds. That infuriating cane tapped impatiently at the floor as Walter lumbered to the war room. "Funny, he never acknowledges me. Rather rude, don't you think?"

"Elda, come." I whistled to my dog (she jumped up at once, as always) and brushed past Reaver's shoulder. Disobedient subjects deserved no attention. Besides, I was needed to inspect the bridge renovations in Industrial. Against all hope, I prayed that my unwanted companion's presence was not also required – a vain wish in actuality, who else in the city could oversee such a complex project but he, the most complex of them all?

It was all too easy for those long legs to keep up with my brisk stride. His mood was not soured at all by my disregard; in fact, it seemed he fed off of it. "You're absolutely right, Your Highness, we _should _be off with utmost haste. We wouldn't want to keep those civilians waiting; that would be in poor taste indeed." He ducked around a stall that I had hoped would slow him down at least a little. No chance. It's amazing how years of hedonism could lend itself to agility.

From an outside perspective, brushing off a gnat seems easy. When that gnat is abnormally tall and also the most hated being in the kingdom, the task becomes more difficult. Despite the early hour, (only tradesmen and beggars were roaming the streets), a modest crowd formed around us. They dissipated with a look, bowing to me and cowering from Reaver, but the image of the two of us strolling like comrades would stay in their minds. The last thing I needed was another strike on my record with the public.

He'd fallen into stride with me while my mind wandered, and when I next noticed he had somehow produced a lute and was plucking an upbeat tune. He glanced down at me and grinned, slowing his play to a slow funeral march. "Shall I play a dirge for that icy countenance? What a pity to wrinkle such a pretty little face, my queen, _tsk tsk_." I gritted my teeth and stared straight ahead, but it only encouraged him. His song became merry and rhythmic, and he skipped forward a few paces until he faced me, walking backwards through the market, "How a about a jaunty tune for a jaunty evening, hmm?"

I don't quite understand why my patience runs out so quickly with him. I have spent days with Logan's bitter realism and even Page's incessant "ideas for improvement" and been completely sane by the end of it. However, Logan and Page do not delve into my personal business like a child with a pail of sand. I can confidently say that Reaver is the most morbidly curious person in my kingdom, possibly in the entire world. In my life, I have never been able to stomach him for more than a few hours.

In any case, I stole his cane. It was an easy task since both of his hands were occupied with ridiculous lute-playing. For such a long, shiny metaphor he'd left it sadly unguarded in a loop at his belt; I threw it to Elda. She caught it expertly, balancing it in her mouth like she did with abnormally large sticks or mercenaries' legs. I whistled and pointed toward the orphanage, a place inside which I knew Reaver would _never _set foot. The dog took off like a shot, weaving around legs and crates to reach her destination; the orphan children embraced her warmly, carrying the cane inside like it was an ancient relic.

His grimly defeated stare continued long after the doors had shut. The lute had fallen dramatically to the ground, where it was picked up by a delighted homeless man. I took the opportunity to slip away, hurrying into the smoky depression of Industrial. But like the dawn, he appeared on cue – right when I'd begun to feel secure in my escape.

From the light, rapid footsteps, I concluded that he was trying to be stealthy, but expensive shoes make quite the clatter on cobblestone. "You know, from the way you're acting, it's almost like you're mad at me." One deep brown eye hovered in my peripheral vision; a gloved hand snaked around my waist. "Are you _mad_ at me?"

I jerked away reflexively, but that strong arm – the might of a true Hero – only pulled me closer. A zeal burned in his eyes like none I had seen since the hostile takeover of Brightwall Balustrades (he'd been positively giddy for days, it was borderline psychotic). Industrial was a terrible place to get caught in the moment – already, beggars were filing out of their well-concealed sleeping arrangements to take up familiar places on the street. I could not risk a scene, and his face had contorted into a primal grin; if left alone, the situation would be dire in a matter of seconds. In a fluid movement, I ripped the glove from his left hand and imbued it with flame; it would not harm a man like him, but it was enough to snap him back into reality. He practically disappeared from my side, rushing forth to greet the head of the bridge renovation team in a theatrical billow of white coattails. I joined him immediately, falling into the well-worn pattern of formality and requisites. My trembling hands still clutched his glove; I stuffed it quickly into a pocket on my dress, just as he was concealing his singed palm inside his vest.


	2. Mutually Beneficial

Chapter 2 – Mutually Beneficial

Logan had taken to dining with me in the garden. It was rather pleasant; we reminisced on days gone, our childhoods, our parents. Only he remembered our father, the enigmatic man who had died shortly after my birth, and I enjoyed hearing tales of hunting and combat training. My mother had never allowed me to partake in such things; my days were spent at court and the loom, or visiting potential fiancées among the nobles of the kingdom. Others have said that she tried to shelter me from the hard life of a Hero (which was a moot point because Logan and Walter taught me the sword when Mother was away), but now I know she was only trying to protect me from treachery. Even she, beloved Queen of Albion, was not without her shroud of dark rumors. I still hear them on the streets sometimes, on the lips of traders and bards; "Her husband was nothing but a figurehead." "…Those poor children, born into a loveless marriage!" "-unnatural death, I don't trust that coffin as far as I can throw it-"

These things Logan would not discuss with me under any circumstance. Even after our trials together, trading out the throne, a fair share of rebellion and death – all obstacles that I thought had brought us closer as siblings, sharing in the truth of Aurora's black secrets – he maintained a distance from me that I chalked up to his hardships as king. A ruler's burden is absolute, and if Logan's method of handling such weight was emotional strain, then so be it.

This night, I was late. It took a longer amount of time than I'd supposed in extracting Reaver's cane from the orphans, who had made it an integral part of their complex and unintelligible play-battle. I now walked the castle grounds with it slung over my shoulder in a militaristic fashion; it was too tall for me to use properly without looking absurd. I'd entertained the thought of returning it, but Reaver had disappeared as soon as we were finished inspecting the bridge; since the abandonment of his mansion in Millfields, he'd taken to disappearing at sunset, and I had no real drive to learn where he spent his nights.

If someone had asked me if I regretted the previous evening, I would have answered firmly in the negative. Falling into Reaver's finely-spun web was not one of my proudest moments, but it provided a much-needed escape from the heavy responsibilities of the court. If Logan internalized his demons, then I suppose I externalized mine. Queens are not gods, nor are they immune to the allure of the desirable – and alluring he had been after a particularly harrowing day of deciding the fates of countless lives. For the first of many times, I'd collapsed on the way to my chamber, overcome with the souls of those who would die by my words. I don't know how, but he was there when I stood (then again, all predators are gifted with sharp perception), steadying me with a hand, leading me into inevitability. He was not gentle, but that was the one sentiment I'd learned never to expect.

Logan heard me walking over the stones of the garden path, but he was facing away from me and did not see my footsteps falter. "Ah, the ever-punctual queen, late at last." He turned slightly, indicating the chair in which I was to sit, but then paused, frowning, when he noticed the precious cargo on my shoulder. "Ava, is that…?"

"Court leverage? Yes." I grinned and took my seat, freeing my brother to sit as well. I wondered how long he'd stood stiffly for the sake of tradition. "Sorry I'm late; those Industrial workers are very passionate about their trade."

Logan was not smiling. He leaned forward slightly, fixing me with his stern, narrow eyes. "Bring it back."

As if he had stared through my eyes and into my mind, shame sparked in the pit of my stomach; the glove burned in my pocket. With the most conceding expression I could muster, I picked up my fork and began pushing a light meal of duck and herbs around my plate, feigning interest. "I will return it, Logan. Don't make your king face at me, please."

"Return it tomorrow. I will accompany you." There would be no argument; he was a statue, resolute in his decision. I could have reminded him that I was his ruler and not the other way around, but it would be useless. There is a certain sibling sanctity that cannot be broken, one being the seniority rights of the Older Brother. To transgress would break the fragile trust we had built.

"Of course, it would be welcome. I have no court duties; we could visit Bower Lake and make a day of it. Walter is more than experienced with handling the odd complaint from the city." This brought the subtle twitching of silent laughter to the corners of his mouth, and relief flooded my tense muscles.

He picked sparingly at his dinner, features intense as always. Logan had always reminded me of the fierce raptors that nested in cliff sides, sweeping steadily through the skies to locate their victims. One fell dive was all they needed, folding their wings gracefully to produce an elegant bullet shape, leveling out after the kill. My appetite had gone with my thoughts, and now I simply sat, watching my ill-fated brother and holding the cane in a two-handed embrace. When he was finished, I stood to allow him to leave. He wished me goodnight and walked me as far as the main stair, then departed to his own quarters (previously mine).

Not a word is wasted with him, and his cold air did not disturb me in the least. The act of almost-smiling was the most positive emotion I'd gotten out of him in weeks. I ventured to hope that the wounds he'd earned on the throne were beginning to heal.

I hesitated in the doorway to my chamber, dreading the state of the bed. In reality, the bed was the least of my worries, for Reaver found it extremely cliché. I could almost hear his voice as he'd whispered harshly to me, advancing with the rope clutched tightly in his hands, "The artist does not _waste_ himself on the tried and mundane."

Despite my fears, the room was spotless – those poor maids. The carpet had been scrubbed of all stains, the drapes re-hung, a wall repaired, and an unfortunate table replaced. I could only imagine what the maids were gossiping about now in the lower recesses of the castle; intuition told me it was nothing constructive. Reaver's, ah, "accoutrements" were piled neatly on my bed stand. Grimacing, I threw a spare sheet over them. They would find their way back to their owner one way or another, maybe through an unlucky peasant messenger or some other method of which only one twisted mind could conceive.

I could not sleep immediately, not with those metallic reminders perching as concealed monsters underneath the sheet. I moved the lot to the floor, then to a closet when their lurking presence became deafening. Still I glared at the ceiling, turned over and over in the shadow of shame, feeling still the touch, the burn, Walter's silent disapproval, Logan's pursed lips. My disposition wavered between guilt and obstinacy; who was I to compromise sense for lust, and yet who were they to question my manner? Those turbulent thoughts roiled until I could think no more, but only follow one nonsensical thread after another to its eventual termination, doubling back constantly, doubting and second-guessing into obsession. Was I right or wrong? Did it matter? Every ruler had their failings, was this to be mine? What would my mother say?

My mother…and then suddenly she was kneeling beside me, blowing away the chaos with a gentle breath. She hummed the familiar, strangely soothing melody that used to lull me to sleep, and so it did for me now. I dreamed of her holding me as she used to, telling me of an age past. But then the timbre of her voice was too low, the fingers stroking my hair too long. Something soft brushed my cheek; a faint aroma of mint and coal stirred my thoughts to consciousness. I was loath to open my eyes – warmth and safety were elusive states. Defiantly, I clasped my mother's hand again, her large, gloved hand…and then something was very wrong.

"So _forward_. You've given up that hard-to-get act, then, hmm?" My eyes snapped open. It does not take much imagination to guess who was there, bent over the side of my bed like an inquisitive feline. He'd reclaimed his cane (I realized to my chagrin that I'd slept with it next to me, cradled like a lover) and now had is crossed in front of him, probably as protection against an outburst. His other arm was propping up his head in a very childish manner; he raised that hand and waved to me, but it was in the infuriating way that nobles wave, only fluttering the fingers. "Good morning, little queen."

I looked immediately to the door, which was still closed and bolted, then to the locked windows. My eyes narrowed. "How did you get in here?"

He shrugged, smirking. "Maybe I am more proficient in Will then you credited me for."

"I'm serious."

"Do you doubt my sincerity?" Reaver's pout was never very convincing. It reminded me of a lion attempting to resemble a housecat, a dragon manipulating the mask of a man, or maybe an arrogant, covetous aristocrat trying to fool me into sympathy.

I straightened my back, trying to look as dignified as possible in night clothes. It was difficult standing up to someone whose presence demanded submission. "You shouldn't be here."

He climbed onto the bed, sitting cross-legged in front of me. "Neither should you. Logan sent a courier here _hours _ago. Ah, relax, dear-" He pushed me back down almost effortlessly as I struggled to stand, "I sent him back with word that you were sick. Our darling ex-king sends his condolences."

I finally stopped resisting and leaned back against the headboard limply. All hope of getting rid of him was fading quickly. How does one argue with a man who possesses absolutely no practicality? "Reaver, I am the queen. You can't speak for me without my consent. That's considered treason."

He raised his eyebrows, resting his chin in the palms of his hands. "Well, you'll have to wait to punish me. Right now you're dreadfully ill, and if you go walking around disciplining people, the kingdom will know you for a dirty liar."

His confidence knew no bounds; of course, I would never publicly penalize him. Nobody else in the kingdom possessed his deep creative drive for invention and ingenuity, and he was fully aware of that. I walked past him to my dresser, brushing out my hair in its small mirror (I could have just taken myself to the Sanctuary, but leaving Reaver in my room alone was out of the question). "So you expect me to be locked in this room all day? My, I will never guess your motivations."

"You sting me. I was simply enjoying your cherubic sleeping face; peace is a refreshing sight when all you've given me lately is anger." He sounded truly repentant, and I almost believed him. For a few moments, I even entertained the thought of a situation in which the sentiments he spewed were more than drabble. But then I looked in the mirror and saw him behind me, grinning rapaciously, and banished the thought.

"You deserve anger. Or did you think I would fall so easily into the role of toy?" I rounded on him, staring straight into his eyes. "I am _not_ one of your whores, Reaver."

"Well, obviously not. Whores don't talk nearly this much. No, no, wait – that was supposed to be positive!" His arms wrapped around my shoulders and I was inundated again with the mint-coal scent, that strange mixture of his two lives. My struggle this time was short and half-hearted; for all of his bravado and pride now, I could still feel the gentle fingers running through my hair, keeping my sleep free of demons. The fury melted away, and I wondered why I even bothered fighting his advances. It would be far less stressful to give in, far more pleasurable, and his interest would wear out more quickly if I succumbed.

He had continued babbling in my silence, taking my thoughtful expression for consideration. I tuned into him finishing a speech about the mental and physical health that sexual activity brings, and how it's really not dangerous if one takes the right precautions. "Fine." I said simply, leaning into the embrace he'd meant for imprisonment.

His arms tightened reflexively, but then loosened in confusion. He was quiet for almost a whole minute, and I could only imagine the bewildered faces he was making, the quick workings of his clockwork mind as he tried to make sense of my answer.

"Well, excellent." He managed to say with hardly a stammer, leading me into a sort of slow dance. "Very good, Your Majesty. I think this association will be…mutually beneficial."

He didn't see me laughing in triumph; the master of rhetoric had been rendered speechless.


	3. Clarity

Chapter 3 – Clarity

When I woke again he was still sleeping, slumped in a chair beside the hearth instead of in my bed; I supposed that a strict diet of debauchery had honed his skills in midnight desertion. For someone who professed such a great love for humanity, he harbored a deep distrust of all things breathing (and some things that have not drawn breath for a very long while). I sat on my bed for more than an hour, watching him; it was a troubling sight. I'd expected his unconscious face to be tranquil from his lack of conscience or sense of responsibility, but it was not so. At first glance, he looked calm, but his face was too flat. The corners of his mouth jerked slightly downward as if disturbed, then flattened, then jerked again; instead of moving rapidly as the eyes do in the deepest of dreams, they were immobile, fixed in a stare. It was quite a surprise to learn that he of all people could experience nightmares.

I wrapped myself in a sheet – my night clothes were, for lack of a better word, "decommissioned" – and walked over to him, perching on his chair's arm rest. He'd been the one constant since my childhood, never changing, never aging; it was strange now to label him _lover_, as empty as that title was with us. I reached out tentatively to smooth his brown hair (which was sticking out at odd angles from the evening's events). It was like silk, exactly as I'd assumed, for his vanity would allow nothing less. It hung at its natural length now for want of styling; he looked younger, more innocent. It was foolish of me to think that I would ever be more than a successful hunt to him, but in such a fond moment it is difficult for one so young to overcome her heart.

His hand grasped mine, held it to the side of his face; he kissed my palm, a tender, alien gesture that left me paralyzed, but solace came in realizing he was still asleep (I ignored the small twinge of disappointment). His features smoothed in serenity. Smiling wryly, he turned toward me, muttering, "Not yet, little Sparrow…"

I jerked my hand away; his eyes flew open. Alarm flashed across his face, but only momentarily – it was replaced by defiance, a solid defense of his words. For an eternity we were locked in silence, neither moving, neither speaking. An ache that had spared me for over a year now throbbed rhythmically in my chest, the entity that came in the garb of Love but threw away its mask to reveal Pride and Weakness, the flame that Logan had extinguished so long ago. The primal instinct of flight itched in my legs, but I could not run, could not channel a suitable response to my lips. Elliot's ghost hovered beside me. And there sat his mockery, his soul bare of atonement for centuries, fingers curled cruelly around the arms of his chair. He smirked, cocking his head to the side as if to ask, _why do you care so much? _How was I supposed to react? Sensibly, stoically, my mind advised; do not show a disadvantage.

I did not. In the next breath I stood in the Sanctuary, wordlessly daring Jasper to question my appearance. I stood behind my dressing screen until the significance of Reaver's plea was nothing but a shallow irritation. Of course it would have been a trick, a double-conquest, a complicated jape. I should have expected such an occurrence; he would not have traveled with my mother for so long a time without attempting seduction. I'd slaughtered hundreds, faced unimaginable odds, won a kingdom, and still been so shrouded in childhood ignorance. No wonder my brother still thought of me as such.

Slowly, I donned my crown and with it, the weight of a nation. I wondered if my mother had experienced similar thoughts, in a similar state, in this very room. His demeanor had been so gentle when he mistook my hand for hers, so different from the detached madman those of our age saw. Maybe he'd loved her, adored her in a way that no one else could touch.

_Three hundred and forty-five days_, my subconscious pulsed with my heart, beating not only with my blood but that of millions. He didn't matter. His motivations didn't _matter_. He would continue strolling through youth long after the world forgot him for the next of countless times. What were we but pawns to his great span of sight? _Precisely._

"How are you feeling, Your Highness?" Jasper inquired politely as I re-entered the Sanctuary's main room. His hair, usually neat and combed, was frazzled and unwashed, yet the rest of him showed nothing but servitude. He hid concern well. "Walter has requested an audience with you."

"Fine now, thank you. I will see to him at once." My voice was strong, tone resolute. Steel nerves did what they could to support the underdeveloped heart; I would never have guessed that it would become such a liability.

Jasper smiled and bowed, but it was weak – there was nothing I could hide from him. I ran a hand along my mother's scale model of Albion, feeling its power stir inside the painstakingly carved wood; an instant passed and then I was in the castle again, nowhere near my chamber.

I found Walter pacing restlessly in our training hall. He hurried over to me immediately, white knuckles gripping the hilt of his sword. Since our trials in Aurora, his age-beaten face had seemed more worn, haunted, like the creature left a wisp of itself in his eyes. Those altered features were accentuated today by worry; he took my arm, led me to a chair, and began pacing again in front of it.

I stilled him with a touch, my own plagues forgotten. From his haggard look, terrible images crowded my thoughts – guttering flames, misshapen figures in mist, formless dark horrors massing on the horizon. "Please, Walter, tell me what has happened." I urged quietly, guiding him to the seat next to mine.

"It's the nobles." He began, exhaling slowly, wringing his hands. "I just came from Millfields. It's covered in _balverines_, Your Majesty! I thought the rumors were just, well…you know how the nobles are with crazy rumors. Are you all right?"

My face had gone flat. Balverines in Millfields, indeed – at least it seemed like no one had guessed at their origin. "Quite all right, sorry; I was also under the impression that the rumors were false. What do you propose we do?"

"The nobles no longer feel safe. Those beasts have been…producing more of themselves, there's no way we can eradicate all of them now." He paused, glancing past me, standing, and making a hasty bow (I saw the aggravated flinch in his brow, but I had learned how to look for such things). "Well met, my lord."

Logan strode vigorously to our sides, but did not interrupt Walter though I saw the burning questions behind his customary frown. It was heartening to notice him finally developing the social skills with which most others were already acquainted.

Walter continued, more warily now, casting subtle glances at our extra guest out of the corner of his eye, "The remaining nobles have requested new housing and suggest that Millfields be abandoned-"

"Absurd!" Logan erupted furiously, drowning my wish for better manners. It seemed his capacity for stillness didn't extend very far at all. He looked at Walter as if he were no more than a fly, incredulous, "The nobles may move if they wish, but it is no concern of the crown!" Then, spinning around to me, he added heatedly, "If you were feeling unwell, why didn't you tell me?"

Walter and I both froze, eyes wide; we must have looked like trout caught unawares by a tricky fisherman. I recovered first. "Logan, I sent a courier. Did you receive the message?"

"Yes, but that flourishing script did not belong to _you_." His voice became dangerously low, deceptively calm, "Please explain."

I clamped my mouth shut, irate at the reminder. Walter took advantage of the silence to continue, "As I was saying, _Your Majesty_," he glared pointedly at Logan and then turned to me, "Millfields is no longer safe, and I would suggest moving them to the empty left wing of the castle. There are no exalted guests expected for quite some time."

Logan positioned himself squarely in front of me. "Ava, you _will _answer me. Was Reaver in your bedchamber yesterday?" then, as if hearing Walter for the first time, he looked back inquisitively. "Why is Millfields unsafe?"

"_Reaver_?" Walter's face reddened; he quickly scanned the room (as if Reaver were eavesdropping in a corner), sputtering madly, "What are we paying those damn guards for? All we need is that caned loon stalking about when there are balverines right under our noses-"

"_Where_?" Logan shouted, making a similar sweep of the room – which, save for us, was _empty _for the duration of our conversation – and drawing his sword, glaring at every bit of shadow.

Walter was similarly enraged, though he was too caught up in his own thoughts to notice my brother's misunderstanding. "In the castle!" He dropped into his former chair, disheartened. "How could this have happened?"

I touched Logan's shoulder lightly, trying to pull him out of his perceived apocalypse. "Logan, I think you're mistaken-"

"Don't worry, Ava. I will take care of this. Go to the war room and lock the doors. Hobson!" He yelled, practically running from the room. I let out the rest of my sentence in a defeated sigh.

And then, at the most inopportune time, Reaver walked by the door (thankfully, from the opposite direction Logan had gone). He glanced in and grinned, tipping his hat to us before continuing. Those fox-like eyes had glinted mockingly; I could have screamed at how much morbid pleasure he took in my discomfort.

Walter stumbled to his feet, making an absent-minded bow to me as he wandered out, muttering to himself all the while, "Who would let him in?"

I must have made a humorous sight, then, sitting alone in the training hall with my arms upraised in exasperation. Why, Avo, send me such tactical men with such single-minded brains?


	4. A Boat

Chapter 4 – A Boat

It took nearly an entire day to calm the castle down after what is now referred to as the "Balverine Incident." Hobson and I met with nearly every member of the staff and court privately, assuring them that no, the grounds were not overrun with beasts and yes, that _was _Logan dashing through the halls and bellowing about glory and the defense of the crown. The story we spread, concocted by Hobson, was that my brother had ingested poisoned meat that had been meant for me, switching our plates secretly to avoid arousing suspicion at the table lest the assassin was among the guests. My assistant suggested several colorful adjectives to complement Logan's gallant deed; the tale sounded heroic indeed and garnered gasps and blushes from the ladies, laughs and congratulations from the men.

My brother was less pleased with the cover-up, but he preferred it to the truth (most who knew what happened had enough sense not to mention it to him). He would never allow himself to show embarrassment, so he substituted it with extra aggression. He was mysteriously absent at our dinners after that day, though I saw him intermittently throughout the castle; on those occasions, he looked so dark and isolated that I kept out of his way.

Having come up with no suitable way to approach Reaver, I resolved to avoid him. It was an easy task since I'd ordered the guards to keep him off of the castle grounds until the Auroran hearing; Logan was ecstatic (well, I assumed he was – his face never changed). I had a feeling that he had spoken with Walter, however, since the old knight now shadowed me whenever I set foot outside the castle. He claimed that it was so he could feel useful, and I did not want to send him away; as the day of the hearing neared, the positive outlook was refreshing. Walter seemed to think that I could retain my old alliances while simultaneously keeping the treasury full ("All you need is a good plan!"). It was escapist of me to indulge his idealism, I know, but the truth was always on my mind – Kalin was going to ask for more money than our coffers could spare, and I would look into her eager eyes and extinguish all hope for her people's immediate recovery.

Still, Walter complying with any request of Logan's was a rare occurrence, as was my brother communicating with the man who had planted the first seeds of rebellion. Maybe they'd finally found a plot of common ground in hating Reaver (I'm sure he would cringe in disgust to know that he was contributing to world peace). I had no desire to confront Logan on his meddling; a part of me did not want to hear the secrets he kept.

Instead, I spent my days devising gold-making strategies, most of which would never work, as pointed out by Hobson. The little man did much to dampen my optimism. My nights were devoted to sleeping in places other than my bedchamber, for I was sure that Reaver had his own devious ways of entering the castle unawares. Jasper had suggested prime bits of real estate throughout Albion and even offered to set up a bed in the Sanctuary, but I'd politely declined. Instead, I piled blankets in my parents' tomb for myself and Elda. One would think that little rest could be accomplished in such a dank place, but the silence put me at ease and I slept better than ever. None could reach me there if I did not wish it, not even Theresa. I could almost feel my mother's spirit protecting the area, permeating every stone and fixture. While there I dreamt of utopia, a land that could never exist but was pleasing to dwell in. There, my people were happy, their bellies full, Walter's eyes were bright, and Logan's were clear of guilt. Even better, Reaver's were free of ghosts; we sat together, his hands in mine, an image I would come to treasure. Sparrow's music box kept us all serene with its childlike melody.

But fate would only permit me to rest for so long; the day of the hearing hovered outside my refuge. Despite the harmony of the tomb, Elda scratched anxiously at the door as I straightened our makeshift beds. It is said that animals, especially canines, are tuned into their owners' moods – if this is true, then my faithful companion was spot-on. She sprinted back and forth between me and the exit even as I walked to it, wagging her tail restlessly all the while. I found myself smiling wistfully as I watched her acting out the tumult I could never show. Her attitude remained erratic until we reached the castle, where her strict training took over and she stuck close to my side, behaving as any courtly lady would.

Kalin and Reaver were not scheduled for some time, as I had yet to meet with Hobson and then two decorators that he had summoned from the city. But any expectations I might have held for stalling were smothered. Neither of the appointments took much consideration at all, and then Aurorans were filing through the doors, staring in awe at the size of the chamber. Kalin came last, proceeding slowly and respectfully, bowing as she took her place. Reaver appeared five minutes after her – fashionably late as always – without entourage, but carrying that familiar presence of oppression that made even the foreigners silent.

And then, less than an hour later, it was all over. All had gone as I'd feared, and now I sat in the shadow of Sparrow's tomb again. Kalin and her people were now proceeding slowly to the docks, where they would board their ships and be escorted back to Aurora by a flotilla of Reaver's freighters, loaded with building materials, architects, and project overseers, and a fleet of my own warships filled with soldiers to keep order. My kingdom was now a step closer to safety, yet hers would suffer indefinitely.

The displaced Millfields nobles still shuffled awkwardly around the gardens, not quite sure how to continue their usual gaudy lifestyles under the watch of my guards. I, in the garb of a gardener, attracted no undue attention. I'd sent Elda to the Sanctuary for this express purpose; sometimes, it is good to blend in with the background and watch. In my other life, Elliot had partaken in this activity also – we would come here often, disguised, and laugh at passing aristocrats' ridiculous hair and clothing. It was a juvenile thing to do, but then we were nothing but juvenile. If he could have seen me in the hearing, sitting and speaking exactly like Logan, I don't know what he would have said, even given the circumstances. _Stone on a throne _had been our silly nickname for my brother; now, I could apply it to myself.

Channeling my mother's protection again was fruitless; maybe her influence did not extend past the walls of the tomb. I could not enter it while the guards were posted – only members of the royal family could go inside, and I wanted to use this costume again. Her memory would have to sate me until dusk, so I leaned back onto the cool marble and shut my eyes, calling forth my childhood.

A dark-skinned man used to tell me that it was unwise to give oneself to the past. "It makes wise men wizened and clever women cloven," he would chuckle at the joke every time and pat me on the head. I only saw him a few times at the castle, but he always had a gift from his travels – a carved wood horse, a necklace of feathers, a strange glass bead – and a story to accompany it. That was how I first learned of Aurora and the distant, largely unmapped land of Samarkand, and many places beyond that none but the bravest of travelers could ever hope to see. When he stopped visiting, my mother still took Logan and me to wait at the docks sometimes. She didn't seem sad, and only told us that he had finally betrayed his own advice. I didn't know what that meant at the time, but having learned more about her old companions since then, I think I understand now.

But that man's words were far from me then, and so I unwittingly went against his counsel. I had retreated into my mind to look for happy memories, but maybe I should have specified – scholars say that the under-workings of the brain keep the thoughts you don't want and release them when you lose focus. Until then I would have scoffed at the idea; what person could transfer that much control to the involuntary? Surely humans had more power over mental frolicking. For me it was not so; I wanted to see Sparrow's life and so, vindictively, was shown her death.

Again I was eight years old, standing with Logan in the town square and waiting for the royal army to march through the gate. Mother had been gone for almost half a year, having led her soldiers up the river and into the foothills to suppress a bandit uprising. The citizens of Bowerstone had lined the streets, cheering and shouting; guards held them back with pikes and lances. Reaver, ever overstated, had organized a celebratory band of bards (back then he was still only a businessman climbing toward monopoly, making small additions to the Market that was quickly becoming its own industrial sector). I was distraught that Elliot and Elise had to stand in the back with the other nobles – I had no concept of class and circumstance as a child – and constantly looked back at them, even when Jasper tugged sternly at my arm.

Logan stood like a young king, shoulders rigid as if he was already starting to feel the kingdom's burden. He was thirteen, bordering on manhood, but still had the adventurous boyish personality that I'd hoped would never leave him. When I glanced up, he was glaring disapprovingly at Reaver's grand ensemble (at least that hadn't changed). I borrowed Jasper's technique, as children are oft to emulate their elders, and pulled his sleeve.

Walter was shifting uncomfortably as the flag-bearers crossed the bridge. I strained my neck to see our proud banners of purple and gold, but they were absent. The flags were black. Reaver raised his arms for the victory fanfare, looked over his shoulder for my mother riding triumphantly at the head of the column. She wasn't there. The town square grew quiet; Reaver's arms dropped limply.

The soldiers, gaunt and dirty, every face streaked with blame, had parted silently to reveal a makeshift field litter. It looked hastily built out of nearby materials and lashed together with rough twine, but four men bore it like a holy relic. A body – and even at that age I knew it to be a corpse, for the living are not carried by such somber faces – was its only ornament, covered in my mother's royal mantle. I shrieked and ran forward, but Logan caught me by the waist, covering my eyes with his hands.

Not a very pleasant memory. I grimaced and opened my eyes again to the garden; the nobles were still there, milling about in the way of people who have no real function save for keeping the top link of the societal food chain occupied. The sun was lower in the sky now; how long had I lingered in my own mind?

"_There_ you are." I jumped, startled, and turned toward the voice. Reaver's gloved hand waved around the tomb's corner. "Lucky me! Everyone in the castle has been looking for you since noon. Well, not Logan – he's watching from the window, just there."

I looked in the direction his hand indicated and confirmed my brother's silhouette in his bedroom window. "You look ridiculous. Come here, he doesn't come out of his room during the day anymore."

"Oh, he would." Reaver gave a dry chuckle. "And believe me, nothing would be more delightful than seeing little Logan confront me, you know, man-to-man. But I'm not supposed to kill him, so it takes out all the fun."

I couldn't help but crack a smile. "Pray tell, why can't you kill him?" His cane tapped the side of the tomb; I swallowed my mirth. "Ah. I never pinned you as one to obey rules."

"Yes, well." He cleared his throat, peeking around the corner. "Logan left, come over here before he returns."

I joined him on the discreet side of the tomb (which became my regular visitation spot thereafter). "He'll send Walter after me. They don't trust you." My tone was surprisingly curt; I'd meant it as a joke, but it sounded more like a threat.

He laughed it away, however, with only the slightest glint of acknowledgement in his eyes. "Come now, Ava, you can't be angry with me forever."

I regarded him coolly, fighting the urge to smirk at his genuine hurt-dog expression that resembled Elda's when I didn't feed her on time. "I'm not angry." In truth, I was mildly pleased that he'd called me by my name; the last time had been when I was small.

He beamed and took my arm, leading me out of the garden. "Well, just to make sure, I got you a little gift. It's waiting at the dock. But," He paused and looked down at me, holding up a finger, "you can only have it if you promise to forgive me."

"Reaver," I couldn't keep myself from snickering, "did you get me a boat?"

His eye twitched. "A _ship_, yes, I did." I shook my head incredulously. Only he could build a ship in five days. He pouted at my reaction. "I think it suits you."

"I'm sure." I was grinning at this point. It was too easy to forget what he'd said, the small significance I truly held in his eyes. Everything felt carefree and weightless; for those few hours Ava came unchained from The Queen. Maybe it was the clothes. As we walked toward the beach, I peered up at him mischievously, dodging a playful whack from his cane after I commented offhandedly, "Boats are nice."


	5. Sincerity

Chapter 5 – Sincerity

We stayed on the ship (and I did not use the word _boat _again, even in my mind, for the impulse had been reprimanded into extinction) until the sun was low in the sky, drifting lazily in the bay. She was a long, lithe skimmer named _Albion Queen _and Reaver claimed that she was the finest vessel he'd ever built – well, that he'd watched his workers build, of course. The ship was small enough that he could man it himself, though it was bizarre watching him operate the furnace and the rigging in his lavish outfit. I struggled to keep in mind that he'd been a pirate (possibly the only stylish pirate in existence) long before taking up the lucrative business of repression.

Shockingly, he didn't try to initiate any sort of high-seas lovemaking. Even more surprising, his sudden abstinence irritated me to no end. It had been a week since that night in my bedchamber, and that awareness hung over us like a cloud (though his lack of acknowledgement was probably a private game, which didn't help the irritation). Having had previous lovers, I understood well the ache of desire, but none like this. I'd never thought myself an overly amorous woman, but the primal possessive drive that gripped me could be nothing else. Maybe I was absorbing too much of his deviant appetite; suffice to say, the slew of thoughts brewing in my head were more than enough to put Logan into a coma. I spoke none of them.

We sat with our backs to the cabin, enjoying a bottle of red wine as he regaled me with the story of its origin, and when he described it as _ancient_ I had little reason to doubt. He pantomimed a castle's siege with as much excitement as if it were happening all over again, firing at soldiers (represented by the unfortunate fruits we'd brought for lunch) with the zeal of a true brigand. I reveled in his comfort, the natural way he spoke and moved, so different from the disconnected, cynical humor he displayed normally. There was no need to be guarded here, and I knew we both felt it, possibly because our isolated afternoon of contentment would become nothing but a dream once we reached the shore.

"You've stopped smiling." Reaver sat down from a tragic recounting of the surrender of the castle's duke (whose wine cellar was subsequently looted), setting his hat – the execution blade – down next to us. "Is my acting so atrocious?"

Absently, I leaned against his chest; it was a comforting impulse I'd thought to have died with Elliot, but my mind was too scattered to notice. He didn't push me away, only supplied a cradling arm for my shoulder. A thousand questions bubbled to my lips, but only one stuck; in the distance, the last Auroran ship was slipping over the horizon. "Did I make the right decision today?"

"Being the sole supporter of it, I would say so." He chuckled and looked down, then, seeing my strained reaction, pulled a bit of sail down to block my view of the sea. "Aurora was dead _long _before you found it."

I drew my knees up to my chin, a gesture born of more than insecurity. Spite drove me to blurt, "Mother would have found a way to save Aurora. She never had trouble with anything." I should have regretted it, but I didn't. It was true. If only she had lived, maybe Albion would be a better place, and I would be happily married and not sitting on a ship with an unsalvageable sociopath.

He inhaled deeply, unsure how to progress. The dark part of me enjoyed his anxiety; for once, I was not the one grasping at words. He was quiet for several minutes, and finally I had to lift my head. What I'd taken for hesitation was, in actuality, much worse; he was staring down at me the way Jasper used to when I'd made a silly mistake reserved for the child I was not supposed to be. The gulf between us yawned before me then, and I averted my eyes. The past year – all of my life experience thus far – flashed before me, so meaningful, yet they were a fraction of his innumerable memories. The insignificance of an ant standing next to a granite statue is easy to imagine; the ant is overshadowed, meek, understated. Reaver induced that feeling often.

He sighed and took my hand, showing nothing but his usual sardonic smile. I could have jumped into the sea; it had been a while since he had locked me out with that mask. "Ava, let me tell you a story. It's about a young girl. She'd had a hard childhood, but now she had a loving husband and a beautiful child. They lived in a pretty little house in Bowerstone. And then they died." Pausing, he lifted my chin; my eyes had begun to water. "Sparrow went to the Spire to avenge her sister, but also for her family. I watched her kill Lucien and stand then stand silently as Theresa presented her with the Spire's power." I knew this part of the story. Reaver's face was dark with memory. "She didn't cry. I suppose she thought it nobler to be stoic. But she knew that she would never see her husband or child again." He let go of my hand, and only then did I realize how hard he'd squeezed it. His face remained misleadingly calm. "So think before you speak, little queen."

I let my head fall. He had shamed me before, it's true, but never so deeply. It stung me to think that so many people used Reaver as the hellish comparison to their moral high ground – past that slick exterior, he trumped us all. "I never knew she had another family." I replied weakly, picking at the frayed hem of my shirt. I couldn't strengthen my voice; it barely rose above the sound of the waves. "Did you know them?"

"No, they were offed before I met her." He cocked his head and grinned, leaned forward and winked. "Uncomfortable?"

There was nothing I could say. He'd put me in my place, a demeaning admission for a ruler – but then, I suppose I wasn't a real "ruler" in his eyes, only Sparrow's child. Of course I was uncomfortable! Did he think it normal to bare his soul and then move on immediately? Perhaps now that his point was made, he was done with the topic. Or maybe he'd said more than he meant to.

Whatever the case, I was not content to remain the chastised girl. Pride would not allow me to sit, cowed, while he played the adviser. That was _not _how my mother had taught me to deal with opposition (coincidentally, she had taught me to oppose Reaver in everything). The low burn of embarrassment was fanned into something hotter; what kind of femininity could I claim of I allowed myself to be overshadowed by the dead? I swung sideways to face him, grabbing that ridiculous ascot and pulling his face down to my eye level. "Not uncomfortable; just wondering why you've not touched me this whole afternoon. You're making me rather insecure. Is it the clothes? Do you only take permanent fancies in armored women?"

He smirked at first, but I only pulled him closer to show that I was serious. He faltered for a moment, confused, but then his mouth contorted into a wicked smile – something that I hadn't noticed before, and I suppose that it must have been restraint, broke in his eyes. An arm slid under my back, lowering me to the deck. "Quite to the contrary, I've always fantasized about having my way with a gardener on a queen's ship." He purred into my ear, moving quickly with his nimble fingers – I could have sworn I'd tied that blouse more tightly. "As you can imagine, it's not a situation that presents itself often."

Against all logic, I managed to fulfill the last of the day's duties without collapsing, and returned to the castle with a priceless gem and a solid alibi. My hair was disheveled from the strong desert winds; my clothing was torn by the sand furies' sharp blades. It was really too simple.

Hobson suggested that I freshen up for dinner, which in Hobson-speak meant "I invited someone important to dine with you, and you look like Death incarnate." Knowing my assistant, the mystery guest was probably another suitor, arranged by Walter. The old knight was fond of reminding me that Sparrow was already married by this time – a marriage of convenience, yes, but a powerful political image to show the public. I'd heard his speech so many times that I could probably say it backwards while fighting an army of hobbes with one hand.

My argument – that Logan had not taken a wife throughout his years of rule – was apparently invalid; Walter explained that Logan's arranged marriage had fallen through when his bride-to-be, a princess of the mountain tribes, died of a terrible disease. Her people had taken her death as a bad omen and refused to offer another wedding alliance with Albion. However, no one could clarify as to why another match was never made for him. Of course this was a mystery; I just couldn't _fathom_ a rosy-cheeked royal girl not being drawn to Logan's attractive personality.

My predicament was that Mother had died before I'd reached a marriageable age and she had only begun to look into possible arrangements. That left the planning to Walter, and he had never really pushed the idea until I'd taken the throne. Only one suitor had been invited thus far, the son of a local noble. He was boring and predictable, incapable of conversing about anything but the most pretentious subjects. No fighting experience, no adventure, just a traditional frilled background. I'd turned him down immediately.

Of course, that was the advantage; as queen, I was free to refuse any proposal, no matter the circumstances. From Walter's perspective, it was important for me to have heirs, but in my defense, I still had a year until I reached my second decade. Should I not solidify the strength and unity of the nation, as well as my position, before concerning myself with procreation? His answer was a resounding _no_. A monarch should always be prepared for the unexpected, he said. But I felt no obligation to his words; call it the invincibility of the young.

Nevertheless, I would indulge his choices. It would be foolish of me to bypass a chance at a political union; after all, any marriage made under the crown is convenient only. We on the hill could only envy the passion and lifelong commitment of the common. But I still harbored a secret hope for real love, the high-flying idealism of a princess, even though I told myself I didn't. It was a difficult mindset to break; after all, I had grown up hearing fanciful stories of the valiant prince performing epic deeds to win the heart of his lady, the lovely and virginal princess. I supposed I was the one performing epic deeds in this case. And my "princess" was anything but lovely and virginal.

Well, I made myself a liar; mindset broken, easily.

Tonight, the dining room was decked in scarlet and gold, the colors of my rule. Hobson had obviously been the decorator; this excessive finery was beyond Walter's sensibilities. The banquet cutlery – commissioned by my mother and engraved with the Guild seal – had been brought from the vault, and maids were still squabbling over its arrangement. Obviously, my right-hand men were very serious about this night. This suitor must be important indeed, and wealthy. Yes, they would expect me to be on my very best behavior tonight.

Unfortunately, there was still some spite left over from the ship, so I performed the only logical progression I could think of. I summoned Reaver.


End file.
